


Sanctuary Hills, Boston

by killbot2000



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, alcoholism tw, mentioned spousal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 13:02:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16703140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killbot2000/pseuds/killbot2000
Summary: Sole survivor Jorge finds peace in the wastelander who stole his heart.





	Sanctuary Hills, Boston

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this when I was a lonely bitch. I am no longer so I cleaned it up to share with the world.

He awoke to the smell of beer and piss and the broken sky pouring out muted orange. There was a broken brown bottle digging into the back of his calf and several others tucked in the sides of his arms that hadn't been there when he fell in the gutter, he was sure. Nobody passed by as he dragged himself from the streetside ditch, letting out a sigh of defeat when he stood on his feet. 

“I'm all for a good drink, but if you keep this up it might kill you, my friend.” 

Jorge turned to the voice behind him, shading his eyes from the sunrise. 

“Since when did you give a shit about substance abuse, mister mayor?” 

The ghoul smiled, “You don't know me as well as you think, asshole.” 

“Shame.” Jorge rolled his eyes and staggered against the nearest wall, slowly making his way back to the center of Goodneighbor. Several more people emerged from buildings or the street like Jorge had, all looking like they might've seen better days. But they might not’ve. Just came into this world with bloodshot eyes and paling faces. 

“Hey, listen.” The mayor walked up from behind him and laid a hand on his chest, “What the fuck has been up with you? I'm worried, man.” 

“Worry about someone else.” He batted away the hand and kept making his way to the front gate. “I ain't a charity case.” 

“A what?” 

“Never fucking mind.” His brow began to bead with sweat from the strain, and his vision refused to straighten out long enough for him to orient himself. His stomach began to churn in on itself…

“Look if you don't want my help I can leave.” 

“Please.” 

“But you're in my town.” The ghoul grabbed his upper arm. He had an iron grip for something that Jorge thought looked like a rotten carcass that’d been picked over by vultures. “You can't be here, it's not good for you.”

“Don't you have a city to run?” He was getting tired of Hancock’s antics, and was now struggling to stay upright. The sunrise looked white and Jorge wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 

The mayor pulled him into a building. Cool air rushed to him and relieved the rising heat in his head. Jorge closed his eyes and let out a breath. 

“Better?” Hancock let out a satisfied laugh and patted him on the back. “Let's get you a bed.” 

The mayor left him in a sitting chair of the old hotel lobby. Jorge watched him through heavy eyes speak with the woman at the desk, her gaze wandering back to him the snapping back to Hancock. 

In several more one-sided arguments, Jorge ended up on a spring mattress with a ratty blanket thrown over him like a poorly concealed corpse in a crime scene.

“Why are you doing this?” 

Hancock absently reached down patted his shoulder, examining the painting on the dingy wall. “You remind me of myself. Only I didn't have anyone who gave a damn. I'm here to give a damn.” 

Instead of responding he looked up the the ceiling, trapped in a time before the bombs, his own ceiling covered in water stains from the rain. And then they moved, on a military salary, to Sanctuary, where the water never left stains and the grass never changed color. It'd been too nice for him, not enough of the dirt and grease that he called home while in the service, the loud mechanical roaring of the repair garage, the tanks coming back with bullet holes so deep that it’d be cheaper to buy a new one than waste breath repairing it. 

And he saw the soldiers coming back, eyes bloody, limbs missing, from the front lines. His thoughts always drifted to the man he loved in those times. The nightmares that followed would always be that he was walking home from the lines, and that he would be dead before Jorge could catch him and tell him one last time that he loved him. 

He’d missed his chance when the mercenary came and shot him to death in the vault, his face frozen in an expression of pain and fear forever more. 

“Jorge?” 

He snapped back to reality, quickly wiping his eyes and clearing his throat. 

If Hancock had eyebrows Jorge was sure he would've risen one; the ghoul looked slightly amused underneath his concern. 

“Fuck you, raisin looking ass.” 

Hancock laughed, “Thought I lost you there.” He gently slapped Jorge’s shoulder. “You still haven't told me what a raisin is.” 

••

“I don't think that's the best idea.” 

“You afraid of a couple of raiders?” 

Jorge scowled and let out a sigh. The two of them stood outside the gate to Goodneighbor, Jorge with a cigarette he bummed from the mayor. The end burnt cool and orange in the evening light. 

“I don't think I should go back.” 

“That's ridiculous. If you avoid something forever it'll haunt you. And, I already told Garvey to expect you.” 

Jorge felt the hair on his neck rise, “You didn't tell him why, right?” 

“That you're using booze as an escape from your dead husband? Nah, I'll let you tell him.” 

“He thinks too highly of me for this bullshit.” He dropped the cigarette and crushed it with his boot. The sun began to slide below the horizon. 

Hancock’s black eyes reflected the neon lights of his town, and they crinkled slightly around the corners, “Ah, but you don't mind that, do you?” 

“Why do I listen to you.” Jorge picked up his bag and slung is over his shoulder. “Can I get another smoke?” He held out a hand and Hancock tossed him a cigarette. The mayor waved as Jorge walked away, flipping his lighter as he went. 

The walk to Sanctuary was long, as he predicted, but it gave him time to think of what to tell Preston when he arrived. Would he admit to needing help? He couldn't burden him with that. Maybe just offer help as Minutemen general until he felt stable enough to be on his own. If he even wanted to be on his own. That was another development he had trouble coming to terms with: loneliness. 

Jorge arrived to Sanctuary, to the sound of grinding gears and whirring of the turrets. A woman behind the guard tower waved at him. He waved back, feeling amusement curl into his lips. There seemed to be no shortage of shit lining the street, broken cars and desks and fans all broken apart and stripped down for anything useful. It gave Jorge some comfort, the dirt and grease he loved finally making it into the perfectly manicured community he loathed. 

Walking to the center of the neighborhood he finally caught sight of Preston. The man paced back and forth with that laser gun of his that constantly crackled with electricity. It was enough to make Jorge’s face light up and Preston greeted him in a way that made him realize that he did, in fact, miss the genuine people from before the war. 

“General! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes.” And he offered a smile. 

“You got that one from me, didn't you?” Jorge grinned and found himself only giving the man a one-armed hug despite wanting nothing more than to engulf him in gratitude. But it was enough, the kindness and positivity radiating off him lifted Jorge's spirits like no drink ever could. “I missed you, man.” 

Preston dipped his head, “Likewise. You must be tired. We fixed up your old house, but-” he gestured behind him at the same house Jorge used to grovel in when it was green and shiny. 

“But?” 

He lowered his voice, “But it’s okay if you don't want to go back. I understand it can be hard, all of this.” 

“It's, it’s fine,” Jorge found a lump in his throat but smiled through it, “Perfect, actually, but I think you're right. I'm not ready to face him again. Any of this.” 

A saw sounded from the workshop’s table, startling the both of them. “You're right. I'm sorry for bringing it up, General.” Preston looked at him with concern and he could tell that the man was really, deeply sorry. 

“Don't worry about it, my friend.” He slung an arm around Preston’s shoulder. “But please, tell me, what else have you been working on?” 

“Oh, I'm glad you asked, I need your opinion on a few things.” Jorge nodded his head but was already someplace else, admiring the sun in Preston’s eyes and the soft curves of his tired face. He began to walk to the other side of Sanctuary, not making to remove Jorge’s arm from his shoulder despite the full summer heat. 

They continued until it was dark, the gentle buzzing of distant insects lulling the small community into sleep. The twilight washed away all color and Jorge felt some kind of peace nestle itself in his chest. 

The settlers began to shut themselves away for the night, each waving at each other before closing their tin doors with a snap. It was like before, but real. Real community formed by the want for life. All coming together to preserve that one thing. 

“You've made it nice here.” Jorge looked over to Preston, offering a small smile with his compliment. 

Preston smiled back, “It's nothing, really. It’s the people that make it.” 

Jorge waved his hand dismissively, “Don't be ridiculous, if they didn't have someone to look up to they'd never be here.” 

That seemed to satisfy Preston, because he stayed quiet, only smiling. 

“Stop it.” Jorge elbowed him, talking through his teeth. 

“What?” 

“Smiling. You're making me smile.” 

Preston almost dropped the grin from his face for a cocked eyebrow. “What?” 

“I haven't smiled this much in months and now, look at what you've done, I'm exercising muscles I forgot I had.” 

When he laughed, head tilted down sheepishly, Jorge felt that nothing bad would ever happen to either of them again. He stared, he couldn't help it, but quickly looked away when Preston cleared his throat and mentioned that they should get some rest. 

“We have plenty of extra rooms. I've got one in my house if you'd like, but it's across from yours so if you don't want to, that's oka-” 

“Preston.” Jorge lifted a finger to his own lips, “you've done so much for me already, don't worry about me. I'll be fine.” 

Soon he was tucked away in the corner of Preston’s house, looking through a window at his own across the street. He thought of his husband, his house, the war. It always came back to the war. 

Sleep never came, only teased him with soft and inviting fingers that pulled away when he got too comfortable. He wiped away a tear and moved to look up at the water stained ceiling. 

From down the hall he heard a cry. It was soft, muffled by the walls. But it sounded painful, pitiful, full of a loss that Jorge felt every day. He pulled off the thin blanket and crept quietly down the hall. A small candle burned on a shelf, illuminating the house enough from the night that was still lightly colored by the sun that never quite set. 

Jorge peered into the bedroom. “Preston?” 

The minuteman was asleep, twitching slightly from the fleeting dream. He jerked again, uttering something Jorge couldn't hear to an adversary he couldn't see. 

“Shhh, my dear.” Jorge whispered as he approached, gently stroking Preston’s shoulder under the blanket. What more did he have to lose? If he denied himself the simple emotion of comfort he'd sleep a thousand nights on a bed of nails, regretting the nightmares he let Preston suffer through. The ancient spring mattress creaked as he carefully laid himself behind Preston, wrapping his arms around him to keep him from shaking. It was best not to wake him up from these things, and just let them run their course. He tucked the bridge of his nose in crook of Preston’s neck and finally, sleep came. 

Jorge dreamt of the sun, soft on his skin. The humid Boston air curling the hair on his head. He found himself in the wasted city, alone amongst the metal skeletons. There was a great flash...

He was torn from this dream abruptly, the echo of bombs sounding far off from his sleep. A gasp came from his throat, his body jerking suddenly. 

“Oh god…” 

And there were arms around him as the daylight nearly blinded his eyes. 

“You’re here now, don’t worry.” Preston whispered into his ear. 

Jorge moved his head to look at the man and began to scramble from the bed, heart beginning to pound faster. “Shit, Preston I uh-“ 

The general placed a hand on the side of Jorge’s face, pulled him down, and kissed him. He fell away from his body, from the bed, from everything except Preston’s lips on his. 

He pulled away, “Why…” 

“Because I think we deserve each other.” Preston drew his eyebrows together, “I think, for once, the wasteland has been kind to us.” 

Jorge smiled, deeply, with his entire soul, and kissed him again.


End file.
